


Sitrep: Tango Uniform

by kaasknot



Series: Clone Wars Kink fills [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bly’s gigantic moon-sized crush, Bly’s tattoos, Clonecest mention, Coming In Pants, Dubcon: Jedi/clone relationship, F/M, Frottage, Lekku suckjobs, Orgasm Denial, Pining, Praise Kink, Vaginal Sex, armored sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24725719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaasknot/pseuds/kaasknot
Summary: Bly tries to keep a tight lid on his crush. It doesn't go so well.
Relationships: CC-5052 | Bly/Aayla Secura
Series: Clone Wars Kink fills [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758301
Comments: 21
Kudos: 316





	Sitrep: Tango Uniform

Bly sighed as the spray ran down his back, and reached for his stiffening cock. The perks of rank: he had his own ‘fresher. Gone were the days when he had to pull one out through the firestorm of his brothers’ teasing. He loved them, but _fuck_ they could be annoying, sometimes.

The 327th were almost set to hit Klatooine. Objective: hold a salient into Separatist-held territory so a clutch of commandos could take out a munitions factory. Distraction and escape route all in one.

It was a brilliant plan, but it was a Jedi plan. Bly had shared more than one tired look with Reaper over the endless holocalls as they and their respective generals hashed out the formalities and details. It wasn't that he doubted the Jedi, but some days, some fucking _days_ , they had to be reminded that not everyone could run faster than the eye could see. And some days, they still didn’t listen.

He palmed the head of his cock, rolling it around in his fist before pumping the shaft. It was heavy and firm in his hand, reassuring, hot, as familiar to him as his own blaster.

Anticipation settled low at the base of his spine, pulling at his balls and squeezing out a drop of fluid. He’d been waiting for this all day. He leaned back, pointing his cock up into the spray, and hissed, his thighs trembling, at the stinging bite of the water against his glans.

Fractured images whirled through his mind. The feeling of another brother’s cock in his hand, of Bly gasping against his neck as he spent his load. That was well-trodden ground, though. Bly pinched his foreskin, rubbing away the tiny shock of pain with brisk strokes that sent tingles through his belly. The memory of getting fucked by Gree three days ago was still a good one. His cock twitched as he remembered the angle Gree had found, and the string of wrenching orgasms he’d forced out of Bly before coming, himself.

But memories of Gree brought memories of why the 327th had rendezvoused with the 41st, and that inevitably brought Bly back to—

 _No_. There were rules, and that was one of them. Bly pulled his hand away with a soft noise of denial, his cock throbbing and his balls cramping plaintively.

He couldn’t let himself fantasize about General Secura. Better he suffer a little frustration than threaten their working relationship like that, no matter how badly he wanted it. The war was too important. _She_ was too important. He braced against the ‘fresher wall until the urge to come eased off, thinking fixedly on the requisition reports he had to sign and not on the sweet flare of General Secura’s hips, or the way her lekku curled about her neck when she was thinking. Bly cursed raggedly and turned off the water.

He’d gone down a little, but not much. He toweled himself off, trying not to linger too long over his angry erection, and pulled on a clean pair of blacks. They didn’t lay comfortably.

Requisition reports, then he could go down to the mess hall, and then to the bridge to check on the battle group’s deployment. He’d had his opportunity to get off, and he’d fucked it up. Time was pressing. He yanked on his armor, starting with his codpiece. It was a tight fit, and he winced when he snapped it into the culet, but the pain was good. The pain meant he wasn’t behaving in a manner unbecoming of an officer, and moreover that he _couldn’t_. His cock softened, but not enough. It ached and leaked, precome soaking into his blacks. They’d be a mess if he couldn’t get himself under control, but better a small mess than a shameful one. He strapped on the rest of his plates and went to his desk. The reports wouldn’t sign themselves.

* * *

It came over the comms like a blessing: “Break break. Cortollis, this is Donnerath. Cease fire. The Klatooinian rebels have surrendered. Repeat: cease fire. The Klatooinian rebels have surrendered.”

Bly resisted the urge to sag in relief. A flick of his eyes over his HUD reconfigured his transmitter into a relay, and he bounced the signal to the rest of the battalion. Ragged cheers broke out; on the battlefield, the enemy troops lowered their weapons in despair.

Sithspit, he was glad. It had been an ugly fight.

General Secura came up to him, covered in dirt and black tibanna residue. “Is it really over?”

“Yes, sir. Just got word from HQ.”

“Good.” Her lekku twitched, a tired, spasmodic movement that only happened when she was exhausted. She turned red-rimmed eyes to him. “You did well, Commander.”

Gooseflesh ran over Bly’s back and shoulders. “Thank you, sir. Wouldn’t miss a day of it.”

The color of her eyes was so similar to a brother’s, but where theirs were gold beneath the brown, hers showed green. “Perhaps the men would appreciate double-rations of hot water tonight.”

He managed a smile. “Yes, sir, they would.”

In the end, he didn’t even get to use the double-ration. By the time he finished his post-battle rounds, he was crashing hard from the stims, and he barely had time to strip off his armor before faceplanting in his rack.

* * *

The general stood before him, streaked with dirt and tibanna residue. “Bly,” she said, and he shivered. Her voice was so smooth it sounded like music. They faced each other on the mud-churned battlefield of Klatooine, blaster bolts flickering past their heads; he was down to his blacks, but it didn’t matter. He knew the bolts wouldn’t hit him.

Bly didn’t often let himself look at his general, but now he couldn’t seem to stop. Guilt coiled through him, settling low in his belly.

She was strong. Her arms were corded with muscle, but not bulky like he and his brothers were; the rippled planes of her stomach curved into thighs he was certain could crush a meiloorun. A pulse of arousal heated his blood. He still didn’t look away.

“Bly,” she said again, and he looked up at her face. Her expression was serene, unaffected. She was a Jedi. Her lekku undulated against her shoulders, but from her expression she could have been meditating. She reached up and unfastened her top, letting it fall to the ground.

Breasts were a fascination to Bly. He supposed they were to all his brothers, even the ones who angled to the left when they shot. They’d spent their whole lives in the carefully-controlled environs of Kamino’s training facilities, and unless their trainers were female, none had seen a woman before deployment. Bly had wondered what breasts felt like _so often_. Looking now at General Secura’s, he thought his cock might snap in half.

They were round and full, and her nipples stuck out like dewberries. Bly’s mouth watered.

“Is it really over?” she asked, walking toward him. He was transfixed. Should he watch her hips, her breasts, or her face? The answer was obvious: he shouldn’t watch at all.

“Yes, sir,” he said. He was so close he could feel his orgasm building.

She came up to him, going up on tip-toes as she pressed her breasts against his chest. “You did well, Commander,” she whispered in his ear.

He came in long, shuddering pulses. General Secura vanished; Bly stared in confusion at the inside of his bunk, gasping as his cock spilled into his blacks untouched. It had been so vivid. He closed his eyes, clinging to the image of the general’s breasts compressing against him. Her approval echoed in his mind’s ear, pulling a last, clenching pulse from his trembling body.

“Fierfek,” he said to the empty darkness.

* * *

He could barely meet her eyes, the next day. He’d had a sex dream about his general, he’d had a fucking wet dream thinking about her naked breasts, and now he had to start debriefs—fuck—with her like nothing had happened. Thank Fett for his armor. It covered a multitude of sins, from his intractable blush to the wood he kept popping every time he saw General Secura’s chest out of the corner of his eye.

“Far fewer casualties than I had feared,” she sighed, her lekku rippling in a motion Bly had come to recognize as a shudder of relief. “When those Hailfires came over the ridge—”

“We’re out of it now, sir,” Bly said, cutting off that chain of thought before it spiralled. “Besides, the men came through okay. Defense pattern delta, just like we were trained.”

“Everything is pattern delta,” she said wryly. “What about defense patterns charlie or echo?”

Bly had to look away from her smile. Hands. Hands were a safe place to look. “It’s just a figure of speech,” he mumbled.

She had beautiful hands. Strong, slim, the veins and tendons in them somehow sleek without looking delicate. He’d seen her rip a tank apart with those hands.

“Bly?”

He jerked himself back to the present, his cheeks hot and his cock crushing itself hopefully against his armor. “Yes, sir.”

“It looked like you were zoning out, Commander.” Her expression was playful, not irritated, and Bly wanted nothing but to stare mindlessly at it, to bask in the warmth of his general’s smile, but they had work to do.

“Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”

She just looked at him for a moment, not saying anything, just looking. “Are you sure you’re alright?” she finally asked. “You’ve been reserved all week.”

“I’m fine, sir.” And he was a big fat liar, too. He reached across the holotable to cycle the maps forward to the next timestamp. “So this is when Yenth squadron came in…”

* * *

Bly took a deep breath and let it out. General Secura didn’t monitor his holonet sessions; no one did, as far as he knew, and given that he knew a couple of brothers who worked psyops, and another who tended the GAR intranet, “as far as he knew” went pretty far. No one but him and his datapad would know what he was searching, and he could erase his datapad’s history.

He still cringed as he entered the search string: “twi'lek female genitalia.” He didn’t hit enter. Once—if—he did, there would be no going back. He would have violated General Secura’s privacy. She might never know, but he would have to live with himself, and she would surely sense his shame.

Two weeks out from the most intense wet dream of his life, and he couldn’t get it out of his head. No matter how often he forced his thoughts away from her, no matter how much he recited his oath of loyalty, General Secura slipped into his fantasies.

He handn’t jerked off in two weeks. Hadn’t touched himself save to wash in two weeks, for fear of breaking the last scrap of professional distance he could claim.

He’d dreamed plenty, though. Caught himself in idle fantasies. At night in his rack, when lights out hit and it was just him and his scruples, he’d lay in bed with his hands under his ass and let his mind run wild until his cock wept against his stomach.

But there was one area in which his imagination wasn’t enough.

Sex education on the clone production line was nil. Medics were taught more, obviously, but for all other troopers, all they knew was the bare basics of their own anatomy. They wouldn’t need more, was the assumption; they were soldiers, bred to fight and die, not to breed.

But sapient curiosity was a powerful thing. Bly stared at the string of letters he’d typed into his datapad, caught between his dick and his sense of duty. Slowly he backspaced, and re-typed: “human female genitalia.” Humans weren’t the same as twi'leks, but they shared enough similarities that they were considered sister species. Immediately he relaxed. He hit enter.

Image after image of sterile medical illustrations rose up on the holonet feed. Bly read through the strange words: vulva, labia, clitoris, vagina. They sounded so clinical, but forbidden, as well. He blushed despite himself. He screwed his courage to the sticking place and searched out explanations.

Fifteen minutes later, he was harder than his own damn deeces. He set his datapad to the side and palmed himself through his blacks. Did General Secura have that between her legs? Despite himself, he imagined the pictures he had seen, of brown, tan, and pink vulva, turned blue; the redness of their arousal changed to purple. He imagined the general’s inner lips swollen and slick, peeping out past—

He came with a gasp, smearing inside his blacks. He gritted his teeth and squeezed himself, utterly disgusted; the shock of pain overwhelmed the pleasure, driving it away. He spurted and spent himself, but he wouldn’t fucking enjoy it. Not at his general’s expense. He closed the holonet search and erased his history, and went to clean himself off.

If only it were as easy to wipe away what he had learned.

* * *

Despite appearances to the contrary, Bly wasn’t a fool. He knew his infatuation with General Secura was the butt of inter-battalion gossip and jokes. “Watch that crush, brother, or you’ll end up like Bly.” He ignored it about as well as he did his crush—which is to say, not well, but as gracefully as he could.

There was nothing graceful about this.

It was supposed to be a recon mission. He and the general had infiltrated a droid base—stupid, but in Bly’s defense, it had been General Secura’s idea—to get an estimate of numbers and movements. Instead, they’d wound up crammed into an air duct while Grievous conducted a surprise inspection.

They couldn’t neutralize him, because that would play their hand. And they couldn’t risk sneaking out, because there were over two thousand battle droids waiting, and that was more even than they could handle. All they could do was sit tight and wait, and hope that scanning for heat signatures wasn’t clanker SOP.

 _Fuck_ , Bly thought with feeling. He was in his armor; that was the only upside. General Secura was pressed against him from shoulders to knees, soft and alert and smelling of sweat, but at least she couldn’t feel the semi filling up Bly’s cod.

“Shouldn’t be more than an hour,” she said, subvocalizing into the comms so the droids wouldn’t pick it up.

Only an hour.

“Yes, sir,” Bly replied. He hoped he’d still have balls in an hour, with all the blood rushing down to choke them off.

The general seemed to hesitate, then, “If this makes you uncomfortable I can move up the shaft.”

Bly swallowed against the mental picture that produced. If she did that she’d—he’d have to—images of her wriggling past his face filled his inner eye, and he shifted against the rising ache in his crotch. “N-no, sir, I’m fine.”

“You are not fine, Bly, I can feel your anxiety skyrocketing.”

Fuck. Fuck. “Your moving wouldn’t help,” he finally admitted. “It’s not you.” It _was_ , but it had more to do with Bly and Bly’s issues than anything Aa—General Secura had done. She was so close, squeezed against him in a space not meant for one person, let alone two, and he couldn’t keep his rotten brain to himself.

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” Bly tried to make it sound more confident than he felt. In truth, he was drowning in the press of her body against his. She was burning through him, her heat seeping down through his armor to scald him, and he was almost ready to beg all the stars and planets for half a shred of mercy. It was almost exactly like a dozen fantasies he refused to acknowledge he’d had. Fewer clothes had usually been involved, but—his brain curdled beneath a vision of Aayla perched on top of him, exactly as she was now, but naked, undulating and smiling down at him, her lekku free from their restraining ties, rubbing herself against the hard jut of his codpiece—

He must have made a noise, because Aalya—the real Aayla, General Secura—went taut against him. “Bly, what’s the matter?”

He couldn’t speak. Her top had gotten dragged down a little in their haste to wedge themselves up the vent, and more breast than he’d ever seen before in person was bared to his gaze.

“I’m taking off your helmet,” she said, moving slowly.

 _Fuck fuck fuck_. He caught her hand before she could reach the edge of his bucket, scraping his elbow against the side of the shaft. They froze, hearts pounding, for any sign the droids had heard it. The moment passed, and they eased.

“Bly.” General Secura’s voice was quiet, but firm. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

A direct order. Bly could probably dodge again, but it would only make her use more uncompromising language. He closed his eyes. Better to get it over with so he could go quietly die of shame. “I’m hard,” he said, trying to be matter-of-fact about it. He had a dick, and that meant inconvenient erections every so often. No big deal. Carry on.

The silence lengthened. The general laid still as a rabbit, and he felt her chest expand as she breathed. “Ah,” was all she finally said.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, a little louder than he meant to. “I tried to—I know it bothers you when people—”

He fell silent when she broke his hold on her wrist. She reached up, still so slowly, to pop his helmet seals. He let her pull it off. The air was stale, but cool on his sweaty face—and full of the smell of her.

“Look at me, Bly,” she said, an odd, sad note in her voice. 

He felt his heart break in two as he obeyed, split open by his own failure. He’d let her down. She didn’t have many havens, and he’d wanted the 327th to be one, but now he’d gone and fucked it up.

She gazed at him for long moments. What she was searching for, he had no idea; but something that definitely wasn’t disgust flitted across her face. “May I skim your emotions?” she asked.

Why not. The worst had already happened, hadn’t it? He swallowed through a parched throat and nodded.

Her hand on his cheek lit a fire in his chest, raw heat licking between his ribs and pooling in the inner spaces of his heart. If he could have stopped this moment before reality intruded, he would have. If he could have died now, with the memory of her hand on his skin to carry him into the next life, he would have handed his soul off to the Fair One right then and there. But he was stuck in this fucking air shaft, and Aayla was heavy and real against him, and time ticked past without a care for one idiot clone’s fragile hopes.

“Oh, Bly,” General Secura said, and she wedged herself up to—

Her lips were slightly chapped. A streak of dust was smeared across her cheek. Bly was frozen solid, in case she changed her mind and stopped kissing him. “Relax,” she whispered against his lips. The wash of her breath sent goosebumps down his spine and a surge of blood to his cock.

“Sorry, sir,” he murmured back, as calmly as he could (which, if he was honest, was not very). “Little too keyed up for that, right now.”

She tried to push herself back, but the tight confines of the shaft meant she mostly just squirmed against him, pressing her hips against his. He had a brief moment of confusion, wondering what the shit she was trying to do, but it quickly passed outside his ability to care, because the sudden pressure against his cod sent a shock of pleasure-pain lancing through his groin, and he drove his hips mindlessly forward to meet it. He made an embarrassing noise, arched up into the resistance of her body, and came, just like a cadet, into his blacks. He shook like a busted LAAT/i through choppy atmo. Spunk forced its way in a hot smear down the inside of his thigh.

Fuck.

He wanted to die. If a platoon of clankers found them right now, he wouldn’t even fight.

General Secura’s breath hitched. Bly waited for his humiliation to be complete.

 _Did you just come in your pants?_ she would ask. Or maybe she’d laugh, not cruelly, maybe just surprised, but it’d still be a laugh. He braced himself for it, his face hot and his teeth clenched.

She didn’t laugh. But what she said, breathtakingly intimate in the humid, still air between them, didn’t make any sense.

“What?” Bly asked through the static in his brain.

“Move your leg back,” she said, pressing against it with her own leg. “I need a better angle.”

“What?” he repeated, utterly bewildered, but he let her move him into position. His crotch squished unpleasantly. Little Gods, the mess he’d have to clean up when they got out of here.

Then General Secura rocked her hips against his cod again, and Bly almost shouted the entire droid army down on their heads before he stifled himself with his hand. He knocked his elbow against the wall again, so maybe the net result would be the same.

“You don’t say,” she said, her voice wry and husky.

“It’s still really sensitive,” he rasped.

She kissed both his cheeks, right over his stripes. “I know.”

Bly’s heart squeezed like a fist in his chest. He was beyond fucked. He was two systems and a deep space jump beyond fucked.

General Secura gave another experimental rock of her hips, and Bly, ready for it this time, kept his remarks to a tragic, un-soldierly squeak. He half-wondered if he was having a bad reaction to his rations, and this was all an elaborate hallucination. Maybe something fungal; everything grew on Felucia, and they’d just spent three months on a scenic tour of the worst shitholes it had to offer. Bly heaved in a breath, unaware that he’d been holding it. Oh, Little Gods. The smell of her. Sweaty and warm and sweeter than a man, but acrid also, and it cut straight down to the heated tremble in his belly. She wasn’t much more than a shadow rearing over him in the darkness, and the sheer surreality of it—the tremble of her arms as she quickened her pace, the mesmerizing sweep of her lekku over his chest and arms, and above all the crushing, goddamn gorgeous agony of her hips compressing his armor into his softening cock—was making Bly shudder out of his skin and question reality.

There was no way on this or any other planet that he could come again. But he could maybe muster some reinforcements to help her along, and he lowered his hand to her hip—contorting his arm down between them to get there—to give her a little more to leverage against. She gasped, high and breathy, and Bly decided, very calmly given the circumstances, that he would level mountains for the ability to make her make that sound again. His entire body was strung out, his nerves white-hot and jangling, with the awareness that she was getting off because of _him_.

“Bly,” she gasped, and he full-body shuddered, his cock making a valiant but futile bid for hardness. One of her lekku trailed up into his armpit, into the tender crease beneath his plates, and it should not have been as hot as it was, but he couldn’t help but imagine them slipping into other tender places, and—

“Aayla,” he said desperately, almost a growl. “Don’t stop.” He sucked in a ragged breath. “Please don’t fucking stop, oh god—”

Her breathing shifted, and she started panting out soft little sighs in time to her movements, her core all but fused to his armor, their legs twined together and braced against the walls of the shaft. He shifted his grip to palm her ass—fuck, it felt good in his hands, clenching muscle and strength and a grippable shape, and he ground her onto him, rocking her a little. He nearly went cross-eyed at the blaze of hurt that went through him, his balls twitching against his body, and the gritted noise she made bypassed his cock and went straight to his heart.

“Aayla,” he said, pleaded, worshipped, helpless before her.

“Oh—” she threw her head back, bracing against the wall of the shaft, and her entire body went rigid, her thighs clenching around his tightly enough to crack his armor, her lekku threatening to cut off circulation to her own arms. The pressure on his cod was exquisite. It was unrelenting. Bly was flung after her, his hips locked against hers, the familiar pulse of orgasm ripping twice as cruelly through him. This time he felt his jizz slick up toward his belly button, but he couldn’t give half a fuck: Aalya was making soft desperate mewls, and as he returned to himself he made out his own name, whispered as a mantra:

“Bly Bly Bly—”

He turned right around and came again, a new personal best. It was shallow, more like an unusually strong, lasting aftershock, but it had him baring his teeth and hissing through a spasm in his abdominal muscles. He sagged back against the wall when it finally released him, his heartbeat pounding so heavily through the tenderized flesh of his cock that it actually hurt.

“You okay, sir?” he mustered himself to ask.

General Secura had her face pressed against his pauldron. A trembling wave of protectiveness rolled through Bly, and he scolded himself for turning into a dumbshit shiny. Like a Jedi needed his protection. He couldn’t reach her face at this angle, so he contented himself with stroking her hip.

The sound of metal footsteps outside their hideaway slushed a bucket of icy reality over him. General Secura tensed, and he guessed it had hit her, too.

“Yes, Bly, I’m fine,” she said, peering down their bodies to see if the droids had found them. Calm as you please, like they hadn’t just rubbed off against each other in a ventilation shaft.

Yeah. Back to reality. Bly let his head sag against the side of the air shaft, feeling bereft and embarrassed by it.

At least he wasn’t hard, anymore.

* * *

Finally, Fate or the Force showed mercy on him. The footsteps they’d heard was the clanker formation breaking up; it took them half an hour to clear out. Half an hour of acute, stinging humiliation and shame. Half an hour of General Secura saying _nothing_ , until she finally dipped into meditation, and Bly was free to let his mind blank itself out in self-defense.

But then the courtyard was silent, and it was time to move. They shifted, pressing against each other in awkward hyperawareness. Bly tried to reach up, but he was laying on one arm, and Aayla was braced against the other.

“Sir, I—” he took a shaking breath, feeling like nothing so much as a gunner dumbstruck from too long next to supersonic blasts. “Could you—my helmet,” he finished pathetically. He couldn’t look at her, even though it was impossible not to. Avoiding her face just meant an eyeful of her chest, or her hands, or her lekku, one of which had coiled up around his head.

“Of course,” she said after a pause. Her lek slid away, brushing against his ear as it did, and Bly tried _very_ hard to keep his shiver to himself. Her face was so close to his. So close, a few more centimeters they’d be kissing. He could—

No, he could _not_. Kissing his general was so far out of the question that he should be court-martialed just for thinking it. He closed his eyes so he didn’t see temptation as she reached up for his forgotten helmet and settled it in place.

He breathed a sigh of relief when it came down. He hadn’t realized how desperate he’d gotten for a barrier between her and his feelings. He clicked his back teeth to activate the HUD, and flicked his eyes over the filters to trip the EMS tracker.

The courtyard was empty save for the sentries. “We’re all clear, sir,” he said, as quietly as he could.

“Good. I’ll go first.” Aay—General Secura gave a stomach-swooping wriggle against his armor, undulating her body to slide out of the crawlspace Bly’s rigid armor had left for her, and he wanted to _die_. Two full loads of come had glued his blacks to his skin, and his cock had the fucking gall to chub up into a semi as her lekku slipped down his chest. He braced against the walls of the shaft, holding himself in place as she did some mumbo Force jumbo to pull out the grate, then slip out and drop down to the floor beyond.

This wasn’t their first time in an air vent. When Bly came out, it would be louder than a droideka taking a tumble in an industrial dryer, so Aayla went first, to act sentry and guard his six.

“Clear,” her voice said in his helmet’s audio outputs. The dumb, lovesick part of his mind imagined her behind him, leaning over his shoulder to whisper it in his ear. The rational, not-fucking-stupid part of his mind shoved it away and got busy shimmying his deadweight ass down the shaft.

Trouble hit, _again_ , when he lowered himself down to the ground. He couldn’t keep from yelping as all the hairs in his crotch were ripped out. He landed on his feet, at least, though he had to lean against the wall as he hunched protectively around his groin.

“Bly!” General Secura laid a hand against his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“M’fine,” he said in a tight voice. “Just…” What the hell. It wasn’t like he had any dignity left, anyway. “Waxed my pubes with dried jizz.”

Her expression went funny, and this time he _knew_ she was trying not to laugh at him. “Can you run?”

He scanned the environment. They were in the breezeway connecting two separate parade grounds; no sentries were in sight. He sighed and slowly straightened, his eyes watering as more hairs parted company with his skin. “Yeah,” he said. “M’good to go.”

Aayla patted his shoulder then took point. “Goalie, this is Kyber actual, do you copy…”

* * *

Bly peeled his blacks away from his belly, wincing as a shower of yellow flakes sprinkled to the ‘fresher floor. He’d _just_ cleaned. Now he’d have to clean again, but with twice the humiliation.

Mission completed. Hurrah for the brave boys in white.

He didn’t let himself think. He skinned off his leggings, leaving them in an ignominious heap on the floor, then wedged himself into the ‘fresher cubicle. His pubic hair situation wasn’t as dire as it had felt. Clones overall weren’t excessively hairy; the Kaminoans had bred out most of their body hair, as it made cleaning wounds harder. Just a smear of irritated redness across the base of his happy trail, and a bare spot on his inner thigh. Liveable. No time for a jack-off, but he’d already come two fucking times today, maybe three depending on how you counted, so he’d have to be satisfied.

He didn’t feel very satisfied.

Soap, water, fresh skivvies. He left off the blacks for the time being; it was better to dry out all the way before putting on a skin-tight moisture barrier. He still had nightmares of the stench he and the rest of Cobalt Comany had developed after a week stewing in Felucia’s juices.

He really hated Felucia. If he never had to serve another campaign on that fucking petri dish, he’d take up theism.

He braced against the sink and looked his reflection in the eye. He needed a shave. Head, but face, too. And he needed to flag down Blackjack to finish his sleeve, but Blackjack was off with the 116th doing urban warfare on Naphthalos, and Bly… Bly probably needed to put in for a transfer.

It wasn’t like the transfers he’d seen birthers get. Clones didn’t transfer unless shit was very, very wrong. If he—or more accurately, if General Secura—requested he be transferred, then he likely wouldn’t command so much as a planetary army again, let alone a sector army. He’d have a black mark on his record wider than the gap between stars. _Unfit to work with Jedi_. A clone’s worst nightmare.

He looked down. Better that than to make General Secura uncomfortable.

The paperwork was on his datapad, along with the rest of the templates he used on a regular basis. He filled it out in a handful of minutes and stared at his signature at the bottom, his stomach tying itself in knots. He didn’t want to. _Fuck_ , he didn’t want to. It would mean leaving Hail and Jayc on their own, but Hail could handle it; Bly could trust the 327th would be in good hands.

Before he could second-guess himself, Bly sent the file on to General Secura. The “sent” icon popped up on his screen, and Bly was hollow. It was the right thing to do.

* * *

He was deep in paperwork when he heard the knock on his door. He took the datapad with him, so he didn’t lose his place. “ _No_ , Jayc, I haven’t gotten the…”

He trailed off. It wasn’t Jayc on the other side of the door, it was General Secura.

She was dressed down in soft leggings and a band t-shirt she’d cut the collar and sleeves off of. She’d taken off her headdress too, and her lekku were shifting restlessly. Bly stared for a heartbeat, gaping, before he realized he was wearing nothing but his underwear in front of his general.

“ _Shit_ ,” he squeaked, trying to cover himself, but there was too much to cover. “Fuck—sorry, lemme just—”

He threw the datapad back to his desk, then yanked open one of the drawers under his rack, where he kept the soft parts of his uniforms: fatigues, socks, underwear. One of the white undershirts that went with his dress grays was at the top of the heap, and Bly grabbed that, yanking it on over his head. The last time he’d worn his dress grays was well over a year ago, at some fancy party Aayla had had to play nice at; the shirt was tight. But it was better than nothing.

Aay—General Secura stared at his chest for a moment. “I hadn’t realized you had so many tattoos,” she said. 

Bly looked down at himself. His arms were bare, so his sleeves were exposed, and sure enough, the metallic gold of his ink showed through the cheap cotton of his shirt. He wasn’t inked to the nines like some of his brothers, not like Blackjack, who wore them for advertisement as much as for aesthetics, but he had his share of tattoos. He crossed his arms uneasily, his cheeks hot. “Just like the look of them.”

Aayla looked away from his arms and back up to his face. She held out a datapad. “Bly, why is there a delinquent trooper transfer in my inbox with your name on it?”

His innards curdled, and he hunched in on himself. “Figured it would be obvious, sir.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t.”

Bly rocked from foot to foot, eaten alive with shame. He made himself say the words out loud. “You deserve an XO who—who you won’t have to constantly guard your back against,” he said, his voice almost breaking, but not quite, not quite. “I tried to get control of it before it affected our working relationship, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Bly,” General Secura said quietly.

He pressed on, before she could say anything else, before she could wave it away like it was nothing. It _wasn’t_ nothing. “You’ve talked before, about how hard it can be to deal with other people’s assumptions, and I just want to say that… I hope the 327th can still be a home to you. Hail’s a good man, he’ll do the job well.”

General Secura pursed her lips. “Bly, can I come in?”

He hesitated, but his days in her presence were numbered, and he was—Force, he was only flesh and blood. He nodded. She stepped over the threshold, and the door closed behind her.

It wasn’t the first time she’d been in his quarters. Hell, it wasn’t even the second time. There wasn’t a lot of space on a venator, and sometimes it was just easier to hole up together in someone’s quarters for a ten-hour stretch of battle planning. But it was the first time she’d been in his quarters when either of them were wearing so little. Bly was deaf as a post to the Force, but his skin lit up and he’d swear, even with her a solid meter away, that he could feel her. He looked down at his folded arms to keep from staring.

She took a step toward him, closing that meter. “I know I’ve already asked this of you, today, but may I skim your emotions, again?”

He shuddered. If she wanted to subject herself to the fucking nightmare in his head, he couldn’t exactly stop her. “It’s not pretty,” he said.

“Nevertheless, I’d like to.”

“Then sure, I guess.”

She raised a hand to his face, and he had to close his eyes so his heartache and yearning wouldn’t fall out. Seconds ticked past, then finally, Aayla sighed, deeply, like she’d eaten a full meal, and lowered her arm.

“Bly,” she said again. “Look at me.”

He did. He could lie and say it was because it was a direct order, but every fiber of him wanted to stare at Aayla Secura, and she’d given him permission. He looked, and she looked back.

She laid a hand on his arm. “You have only ever made the 327th my home.”

The hair rose all over Bly’s body. He couldn’t look away.

“You have never _once_ assumed. You are not possessive, covetous, or otherwise unpleasant to be around. You see me as a person, not as a twi’lek _female_.”

Hope was the worst feeling in the world. The worst, most painful risk a person could take, and Bly was trembling beneath a swell of hope so wide and strong he was afraid it would drown him.

When Aayla spoke, her voice was low and throaty. “Bly, can I touch you?”

“Y-you are touching me.” Fett’s sake, he was an idiot.

She smiled a little, a soft, wry twist of her lips. “Can I touch you _more?_ ”

He nodded, unable to get the words out.

“Thank you.” And then, so impossibly gently, she pried his hand out from where he’d shoved it against the inner crook of his elbow, and kissed the back of his knuckles. A featherlight press of her lips against his skin, before cradling his hand between her own. 

Bly’s heart stopped in his chest. “Isn’t—aren’t there Jedi rules?”

Aayla didn’t reply for a while, but her lekku were restless, agitated. “I haven’t been a good Jedi in a very long time,” she said, tracing over his fingers. “I can’t—be open to the Force, the way I need to be. I can’t listen to it; it’s physically painful.” She looked up to meet his eye. “Except when I’m with you. And your men, but… especially you.”

Hope was the worst possible emotion, save when it was fulfilled. Bly raised his hand from hers and laid it, his heart full to breaking with hope, against her cheek. He just touched her, taking in the silk-smooth of her skin, hairless and soft where one of his brothers would have stubble and human vellus. He felt himself leaning in slightly. “Can I…?”

She replied by dragging his head down to kiss him.

He lost track of time, after that. There was only the searing slip of their mouths, and the searing joy of his emotions. At some point they’d stumbled back against the bulkhead, Bly’s shoulders hitting the wall and Aayla practically climbing up him so she could reach his mouth. That had the fringe benefit of letting him put his hands on her ass to hold her up, and he really couldn’t complain about that. Bly wasn’t much for asses in general, he was more about chests, but Aayla’s ass made a compelling argument.

Even better was feeling Aayla’s breasts compress against him, without the fog of a dream and uncertain imagination to muddy the sensation. He stumbled sideways toward his rack, and she jumped down, following his train of thought, and hauled him the rest of the way until he was bouncing off the unforgiving mattress. She threw a leg over and straddled his hips before he had time to get his brain in gear.

Jedi speed. Maybe it was worth something, after all.

“Tell me if I do something you don’t like,” she said, and he barely had time to give a breathless “okay” before she was shoving her hands under his shirt, yanking it up until it caught against his arms and he had to wriggle out the rest of the way. She threw it into the corner with extreme prejudice.

Bly gave a helpless laugh, feeling unmoored and electrified. “Not a fan?”

“I’d have you naked 24/7 if I could,” she said against his mouth, before ducking lower, to his throat. “Coruscanti morals are so restrictive.”

Stars. “Is that—oh, fuck—is that why we can’t get you to wear a complete shirt, let alone armor?”

She traced over the tattoo on his collarbone. “I have it on good authority that I hated clothes as a youngling.”

Bly laughed again, imagining a little blue twi’lek toddler streaking through the Temple halls, her minders frantically collecting her clothes behind her.

His laughter dried up when she lowered her mouth to the concentric triangles over his left pec. Over his heart. He arched up against her tongue, his nipples going hard as he broke out in goosebumps.

“Do they mean anything?” she asked against his skin.

“Not in and of themselves,” he replied, his hand stroking her near lek without him. “I usually get them when something happens.”

“What happened for this one?”

It hurt to say, but Bly didn’t ever want to forget. “My batcher, Triple-Three. He got headshot saving me from a boobytrap. I’ve got some of his ligament in my knee. Another brother in the 91st got his heart.”

Aayla looked up at him, her expression gone serious and sad. She pressed a kiss against the ink, then leaned back, climbing off him, and found the knee where he’d blown out his ACL. She kissed the scar, and Bly had to throw his arm over his eyes. He couldn’t take that kind of tenderness from her. He didn’t know what to _do_ with it.

Then she was back on him, gently moving his arm aside and kissing him, and he could feel the tears welling up, but she kissed them away. “I’m grateful for his sacrifice,” she said, and Bly, he’d already do anything for her; he’d ruin his career for her, he’d jump in front of a blasterbolt for her. There wasn’t anything else he could _do_ but kiss her back.

Somewhere along the way her shirt came off, flung into the corner with his own, and he got to see 100% real mammalian breasts mash against his chest. He may have made a noise. His cock definitely tried to ruin a second set of underwear.

“This isn’t going to last very long if we don’t hurry it up,” he said a little raggedly when she broke away.

She raised a brow. “Even after the air vent?”

He shrugged awkwardly. “I’ve got a lot of love to give?”

She tried to smother him with his own pillow for that, but it was fine, because she followed it up by stripping off her leggings. He was a little slower getting his briefs off, but Bly didn’t think he could be blamed for getting coldcocked by his own fantasies made flesh. 

Then her hand was on his cock, cool and callused, and he forgot how to breathe. “Are you ready?” she asked, hovering over him.

He nodded jerkily.

Then she lowered herself down, and Bly was—maybe that tide of hope was drowning him after all, because he couldn’t _breathe_. She was hot and slick and tight—not as tight as an ass was, but there wasn’t a sphincter he had to fight against, and she was so _wet_. When he bottomed out, that tight, slippery grip wrapped _all_ of him in even pressure. He moaned, shivery and broken. He’d just—he’d just _slipped in_ , without prep. He almost came from that alone. If he hadn’t creamed his blacks in an air vent three hours before, he probably would have.

She had to move. He wanted to move. The muscles in his hips were twitching with the urge to move, but the tingle under the head of his cock promised with absolute certainty that if he moved at all, he’d humiliate himself. Again.

“C-can you come like this?” he asked, his hands locked around her hips to keep her from moving, to keep _himself_ from moving.

Her eyes were so dark, a purple flush riding her cheeks. She shook her head. “Here.” She pried off one of his hands, moving it toward her slit. _Her vulva_ , Bly thought, and though he couldn’t see his dick, he knew it was there, buried inside her, and he had to close his eyes because that was. That was too much. He was too close for that. 

He felt, instead, the soft slip of her wet skin against his fingertips. “Rub here,” she said, and he did, feeling around until something made her inner walls clench around his dick, and fuck, _fuck_ , he just wasn’t going to last.

But maybe that was okay, because Aayla threw her head back when he rubbed again at that spot—he felt the nubbin of tissue, her clit? Except there was another one right behind it, a little bigger, and when he rubbed _that_ , her thighs trembled and she clutched at his dick, and maybe they were both in desperate straits.

“This okay?” he asked, with barely any voice left.

“Don’t stop,” she growled back, her hand like a vise around his wrist, and Bly took that as his marching orders. He stroked the two nubbins, both clits as far as he could tell, and she started rocking her hips down on his cock and he was back to closing his eyes, because that sent sparks through him, that sent his toes curling and his knees bending, and his abs were clenching helplessly with the urge to thrust.

“I—I gotta move, I’m not gonna last—”

“ _Do it_ ,” she said, and Bly jerked his hips up with a sob. It was just a small heave, lacking coordination, but even with a vagina instead of an ass it wasn’t his first orbital drop. She ground down on him, making him work for it, and the minute, the very _minute_ they got a working rhythm going, he felt his orgasm build low in his guts.

“A-Aayla,” he gasped, feeling it burn through him.

She gasped in reply, bracing herself up on his chest; something clattered to the floor, but it was far away from the rushing in his ears. One of her lekku slapped down on his chest, and Bly didn’t stop to think: he grabbed it and slipped the tip into his mouth, sucking down like he’d wanted to ever since he’d learned they were erogenous zones.

“ _Bly!_ ”

He didn’t know what it was. If it was the sudden spasming of her body around his shaft, or if it was the sound of his name on her lips. If it was because this was the first time in close to a month that he’d let himself come without it being a dream or suffering the indignity of an overloaded codpiece. A supernova lit off in the bowl of his pelvis, forced itself out his dick, and he was left gasping in the aftermath, so dizzy and weak and sweaty and _in fucking love_ that the only thing he could do was cling to Aayla. So he clung. He’d already die for her; the only thing left that he could do was love her.

“I’m denying your transfer request,” she said, brushing her hand over his hair.

He nodded against her shoulder. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m double-posting this weekend because of all the nice people who hit up my inbox on tumblr, and because this was pretty close to being done anyway. It’s all the little oneshot Blyla pwps I wrote on the kink blog, but I put them together, added some plot, and gave it a proper resolution.
> 
> For reference, I picture Bly’s tattoo as the top part of [this one](https://www.askideas.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/Geometric-Deer-Tattoo-On-Man-Chest.jpg). Except, you know, gold and metallic.


End file.
